


What Doesn't Kill You

by Dawnwind



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, season one episode 11 Alone Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:21:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24111958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: Gil faces his fears after Malcolm is found alive. How many times is this going to happen?
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 12
Kudos: 66





	What Doesn't Kill You

What Doesn’t Kill you~

Gil drove as fast as he dared on congested New York streets, taking corners like a pro race car driver, headed for the Whitly family home. Gruesome, bloody images piled one atop the other in his brain, fueled by the texted picture of Detective Shannon’s throat gashed from ear to ear. Malcolm slashed into ribbons, blood covering his neck and chest. Malcolm smashed flat in a car crusher like the first victim they’d found attributed to the Junkyard Killer. 

_No, please God, no._

For the umpteenth time, he mashed a thumb into his phone, desperate to contact Jessica or Ainsley Whitly. Neither had answered.

What did that mean? Had John Watkins already murdered the entire family? Were they hostages? That house was over one hundred years old, there must be dozens of hiding places, boarded up over the decades. 

Gil was still holding his cell right-handed, waiting impatiently at an intersection blocked by a big rig and a taxi both trying to avoid a collision as they turned, when the phone’s vibration jangled his arm from palm to elbow.

“Ainsley?” he yelled, the clench of dread in his belly one he hadn’t felt since his wife died. 

“It’s Jessica,” the matriarch identified shakily. “He’s…” She didn’t quite sob but it was a masterful save. “Malcolm—“

For a moment, Gil went cold, fearing the worst. His usual calm in the face of cruelty and violence was shot to hell. He hit the accelerator to finish the mile to the Whitly home, clutching the phone as if it kept him sane in a world gone _loco_. “Malcolm?” he pleaded.

“Took care of _him_.” The inflection was clearly intentional. “But Ainsley is hurt and Malcolm…”

In the background, Gil heard a staccato noise, distorted by the phone’s speaker, but obviously a voice. A familiar voice. “Tell him I’m fine!” Malcolm shouted, the strain audible.

“I’ll be there in two minutes,” Gil said, relief so profound flooding his body that he could barely see to drive. _Not at all safe_. He gulped air, dropping the cell into the other seat to locate the half empty bottle of San Pellegrino water he knew was tucked into the drink holder.

A bottle Malcolm had left there the last time he’d ridden in the car. Gil put his lips to the neck of the bottle, drinking greedily. Could this be the last time he shared spit with Malcolm Bright? He hadn’t been fooled by Malcolm’s declaration of fitness. The fact that he’d been held for nearly twenty hours meant that Watkins injured him in some way. Possibly seriously. 

They’d kissed twice, maybe three times—late at night in the squad room. Two days ago. About to leave for the day after a long conference call with the police commissioner, Gil had passed by the conference room and spied Malcolm up to his arms in paperwork. Didn’t take a rocket scientist to know what and who he was researching. _The Girl in The Box_ was his obsession, his holy grail. As if, by unraveling that mystery, he could mitigate all of his own fears and neuroses.

Now, days later, Gil wasn’t sure what had propelled him. Surely not the sprig of mistletoe some joker had taped to the ceiling. But it was Christmas week, and Malcolm had looked like he needed a present. Something to cheer him up.

Gil had walked in and closed the door behind him. Not really much chance of being seen by others: JT and Dani had gone home for the night, and the few other cops who had desks on this end of the room were either on a case or off for the holidays.  
Malcolm had looked up at him, those startlingly blue eyes wide and guileless, his bangs hanging down over his forehead. Not for a second did Gil compare him with the ten year old he’d met twenty years before. This was a man, and in his heart of hearts, Gil could admit that he’d loved Malcolm Bright for a long time. 

Without allowing himself to overthink the action, Gil leaned down, and brushed a quick kiss on his cheek. At least that was his intended target. To pretend it was a Christmas greeting, and nothing more. 

Except Malcolm turned his head enough to get his mouth on Gil’s lips, and then clasped Gil’s shoulders to hold him in place. Despite the awkwardness of the position, the kiss had deepened, leaving them both breathless. 

Gil had dropped into the chair beside Malcolm, dumbfounded. Not at all how he’d expected it to go.

“One of us going to die now?” Malcolm said with a quirky grin.

“Why do you say that?” Gil returned the smile, amazed at his own bravado and how chill he felt about the entire incident. That it was meant to be. 

“The long awaited kiss,” Malcolm said simply. “The denouement of the plot.”

Gil gazed at him, amused. For all the trauma he’d endured, Malcolm was a sweet man with a tendency to hide behind his own intellect and macabre sense of humor to deflect close scrutiny from others. He permitted very few people past his barriers. Gil was humbled to be one of those. “That was long awaited?” he asked fondly.

“Was by me.” Malcolm looked happy and calm, no tremors in his right hand, no white showing around his irises. He walked his fingers across the scattered case reports, entwining his thumb and forefinger with Gil’s. “Didn’t relish waiting much longer. I’d begun formulating plan B.”

Closing his fingers around Malcolm’s, Gil held hands with him. “What was that going to be? You getting bit by a snake or falling out a window for me to catch? You’ve already done both of those.”

“You weren’t there when I was hanging out the window of my loft,” Malcolm pointed out with a raised eyebrow. “Who told you?”

“Jessica,” Gil confessed, giddy with happiness. Who’d have suspected that he’d feel like a kid after Santa filled his stocking?

“Well, don’t mention this to her,” Malcolm cautioned with mock sternness, kissing him again. 

_Two fucking days ago._

How had circumstances changed so very quickly? On Christmas day, Gil should have been home with a big glass of brandy eggnog watching his traditional Christmas movie, _Lethal Weapon_. Ever since Jackie died, he’d gone without a tree, or many presents for that matter, but watching Murtaugh and Riggs hunt down a killer in holiday decorated Los Angeles was sacrosanct. He’d even planned to ask Malcolm to join him.

He took a right onto his destination and braked hard. The entire street was gridlocked with emergency vehicles of every description. Two fire trucks, half a dozen black and white patrol cars, and an ambulance. Those were only the cars Gil could identify with the shifting shadows and revolving red and blue lights from half the vehicles. A phalanx of reporters clustered on the opposite corner, all trying for that story that would earn them a Pulitzer. 

He climbed out of the Trans Am, not worried about leaving it parked illegally. Every cop in the borough knew who drove the black, rag top, classic Pontiac.

Ducking under the swaths of yellow tape, Gil spotted Jessica standing at the top of the front stairs of her ancestral manse, directing emergency personnel into the house. Despite the freezing December temperature, she was wearing a dark dress without a jacket or shawl.

“Sorry, sir. We can’t allow any press past—“ A young cop who could have gone undercover at high school without difficulties blocked his forward momentum. 

Gil peered at the kid’s name badge. Strobbing lights from the police vehicles made it hard to read. “Detective Gil Arroyo of Major Crimes, Officer Tam,” he barked, holding up his own badge, nerves fraying to the breaking point.

“Sir!” Tam stiffened, mollified. “Please go through.”

Jessica ushered a female paramedic who was trotting up the stairs lugging equipment into the house. Gil followed them, trying to avoid Jessica’s notice. He stepped around several more cops, scanning the entry hall for Malcolm before heading for the palatial front room. 

Controlled chaos was the watchword. There were cops everywhere, practically bumping into each other, several intent on an open trunk set against the floor to ceiling windows next to a tire iron tagged with evidence markers. 

Two sets of paramedics were grouped around the Whitly siblings. Ainsley held a cloth to her forehead. “Really, my head hurts but I don’t need to go to hospital,” she wheedled.

“Young lady,” Jessica said tightly, “They know what is best. X-rays, CAT scans…”

As the woman he was following put down her load, Gil caught sight of Malcolm. Naturally slight, he had a slender build, his clothes hiding smooth muscles earned from martial arts and yoga. Lying on the gurney, he looked fragile, as if he’d snap in half. Blood slimed his ripped chambray shirt, one sleeve already cut off for the medic to insert an IV into his right arm. He’d been fitted with a nasal cannula and a temporary brace on his left hand.

As often when stressed, Malcolm was hyper, his eyes wide, breathing fast, which had to hurt like a son of a bitch if the bandage on the left side of his chest was anything to go by.

“Gil!” he called, his right hand trembling so fast the paramedic was having a difficult time inserting the needle for the drip. 

Disconcerted by the metal handcuff attached to Malcolm’s right arm, Gil went down on his knees. “Bright, what the hell did you get yourself into now?” The snarled greeting was far from what his heart wanted. But what could he say in a room full of onlookers?

“Banged up,” Malcolm confessed, restless with the two paramedics attending to his wounds. “But I took him down.” 

It was as if no one else were there, for a moment. Just him and Malcolm. Gil yearned to pull Malcolm into his arms and was afraid to touch him for fear of injuring him further, all at the same time.

“Can you hold still?” the petite blond paramedic asked. “I can’t place the IV with your hand moving.”

“I—“ Malcolm started, staring at her. The trembling rattled the links on the chain like some cheap horror movie sound effect.

Gil curled his fingers around Malcolm’s, feeling the tremors diminish at his touch. His own fears drained away for the same reason. Malcolm looked directly at him without a wince as she slid the needle home and taped it into place.

“We’re giving you morphine with the lactated ringers,” her partner said quickly, handing her a bag of clear fluid and IV tubing. “Your heart rate and blood pressure are through the roof. You’ll feel a lot better in a few minutes.”

“Already do.” Malcolm squeezed Gil’s hand once before letting go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

“We were able to repair the knife wound on his left side without difficulty,” the head of surgery, Dr. Kazim, explained in his very precise English. He shook his head, bemused. “There was every possibly he could have been knifed in the lung, which would have been fatal, but instead, the blade must have slid against a rib, just piercing the stomach—“

 _Fantastic_ , Gil thought sarcastically as Jessica pestered the doctor with questions. Exactly what he’d have asked, given the chance. How would that affect his appetite, would he have to be on a restricted diet? Malcolm already ate like an anorexic bird.

“He’ll be NPO for a few days—“

“Which means?” Jessica interrupted,

“Nothing by mouth,” Kazim continued without a hitch. Clearly, this was a question he got often. “But that is simply to allow the wound to knit closed. He should make a full recovery.”

Gil waited through the laundry list of injuries with terrified awe. How did the kid keep bouncing back? Severely crushed left distal and proximal phalanges, or thumb bones, which would require casting for weeks. Bruised from a beating, dehydration, and the aforementioned knife wound. Gil had to remember the warmth of Malcolm’s hand in his only a few hours ago. That none of the physical abuse had killed him.

“You may go in for a short while once he’s come out of anesthesia,” Dr. Kazim said with a nod, leaving them in the intensive care waiting room.

Jessica frowned at his departing back, clutching her cell phone like a talisman. “Seems far too young to be a surgeon,“ she said acidly. “I hope to God this wasn’t his first case.”

Gil wasn’t sure what to say to Jessica. The platitudes had already been exchanged while waiting out the hour length surgery. As well as queries about Ainsley’s head wound, which was luckily minor. She’d be released in the morning.

He was more than happy when Jessica got first visitation rights, deserting him to the ancient issues of National Geographic and Sports Illustrated. Gil was content to sit, digesting the events of Christmas day. No tree or visit from Santa, but they’d all received their gift: Malcolm had survived.

JT and Dani had been apprised and sent home: JT to wife Tally for a belated holiday dinner, Dani to the Bronx where her mother was waiting with brightly wrapped presents. That left him alone again on a holiday. Since Jackie passed, Gil hadn’t had much extended family. He’d always been close with the Whitlys, sans Martin, of course, but where did that put him now?

He had no doubt that Malcolm would not relish exposing their burgeoning relationship to the world, thus Gil had to remain the concerned family friend—at least to Jessica and Ainsley.

He was determined to debrief Malcolm in private. The kid had to be on a knife’s edge of emotions. If Gil could de-escalate him, even a fraction, it would improve the chances of establishing a coherent testimony. Plus, Gil craved touching his love as much as was permissible.

“He’s sleeping.” Jessica said. “Must be some good drugs.”

Gil jerked abruptly, pain clamping down his neck and shoulders. _How the hell had he fallen asleep, and how long had he been out?_

“Which is good, Jess.” He stood, embracing her. Jessica leaned against him momentarily, with a huge sigh. “How about you? You need sleep, too.”

“I have a bottle of Quaaludes I saved for just such an occasion.” Jessica smiled bitterly, her armor once again buckled on. “Plus a bottle of seventeen year old bourbon that has never been opened.”

He wasn’t sure if she was joking. She’d never OD’d or even passed out drunk, as far as he was aware, but there was always a first time. “Please tell me you’ll stick to one or the other.”

“You’re sweet, Gil.” Jessica patted his whiskery cheek. “Been a long time since a man worried about me.”

“Jessica, you’re like family. It was a shitty Christmas, but it will be a much better new year.” 

“Just keep telling yourself that, Gil.” Jessica nodded, holding up her cell. “I called my driver, he should be downstairs now. Do you need a ride anywhere?”

“I want to ask Bright—uh, Malcolm--a few questions when he wakes up.”

She looked up at him, resolute and brittle as the peanut candy, turned on her stiletto heels and walked out.

Gil pushed through the ICU doors, glancing around. This late at night—or early in the morning, to be specific—there weren’t many visitors. The nurse charting at a computer on wheels was apparently expecting him. She pointed to the third room along the curved unit.

The room was dark but when Gil approached, Malcolm shifted slightly in the bed, his eyes open. The shadows blurred the bruises, his usual hyperactive nature suppressed by the meds.

“Looking pretty good there, champ,” Gil said, self-consciously aware that they were in a public place and couldn’t be intimate exactly when he yearned to be.

“Quality sleep,” Malcolm deadpanned, beckoning him all the way inside. “You’re not used to seeing me well rested.”

A sad truism in the insomniac world of Malcolm Bright. That the four plus hours since he was transported away by the paramedics, with morphine on board, and then the hour of surgery with anesthesia counted as good sleep.

“Rather see you tearing around the bullpen with some wild theory.” Gil sat in the bedside chair. It was oddly peaceful despite the constant presence of medical personnel and the muted beep from the heart rate monitor and IV pumps. As long as he didn’t focus on the large cast on Malcolm’s hand. Good thing he couldn’t see any of the bandages hidden under the hospital gown. 

“I’ll be back,” Malcolm said in a vaguely Arnold Schwarzenegger accent. He shimmied the arm with the IV over enough to grasp Gil’s fingers, brushing his thumb against Gil’s.

“The Terminator you aren’t.” Gil squeezed his hand gratefully, the tightness in his chest diminishing. As it was, he could feel rough abrasions from the handcuff on the wrist of Malcolm’s right hand, just below the IV insertion site. What the hell had happened with Watkins? Malcolm had pulled some outrageous stunts in his life, and been injured more times than Gil could count on both hands, but this had been too damned close. “You need more sleep, healing sleep.”

“Would be nicer if you lay down beside me.” Malcolm yawned, his eyes drooping.

A rarity indeed, Malcolm looking tired. “When you’re out of here,” Gil vowed. “How about I sit here, recount some gory crime scenes.” He rubbed his thumb in concentric circles on Malcolm’s palm, taking deep, slow breaths. Used to put Jackie into dreamland on her worst nights.

“My favorite lullaby,” Malcolm replied lazily.

Astonishing how the kid could act as if this was all routine. He’d nearly been murdered, his family brutally terrorized, and he was his usual snarky self, tap dancing like mad to keep from falling to pieces. Gil brushed the long hair off Malcolm’s forehead, avoiding the butterfly bandage.

“May I make a request?” Overly formal, Malcolm sounded bleak, turning his head to rest his cheek in Gil’s hand.

“Just like you to have a favorite crime scene,” Gil admonished with a chuckle. 

“Not that.” Malcolm gazed up at the dark ceiling. 

There was enough light spilling from the ICU hallway to see the terror lurking just behind his eyes, his memories of Christmas Day fresh and horrifying. Gil ached at the sight, willing to do anything to lighten his load. However, he’d been a cop long enough to know that only time, therapy, and supportive love could do that. 

“You…” Malcolm sucked in air, the effort to maintain equilibrium monumental. “You’re the only one to take my statement.” He half raised his left hand to make a gesture and grimaced with pain, lowering it to the bed. “I’m not repeating my story to every rookie cop on the force excited to hear the sordid details. Only you, and only once.”

Gil sighed, overcome with emotion he couldn’t express. Not here, not now. He blinked away the moisture in his eyes, glad of the covering darkness. “Bright,“ he said wearily, feeling all of his fifty-eight years. “Not sure I can promise that. You know how complicated processing a victim’s statement can be.”

”You’re the fucking head of Major Crimes,” Malcolm raged, breathing hard. “Just promise me. Make me believe…” He sank back into the pillows, vibrating impotent anger. 

“I promise.” Gil almost crossed his fingers like a third grader on the playground to ameliorate what was essentially a white lie. There was no way he could guarantee that every department from internal affairs to the district attorney wouldn’t horn in. The testimony of The Surgeon’s son’s kidnapping at the hands of the Junkyard Killer could be the stepping stone to a promotion. Not to mention the press who’d be salivating for an exclusive. Still, he could hold a firm line, keep the riff-raff at bay as long as possible. “Just me,” he stressed, crouching to get into Malcolm’s personal space, forcing him to look Gil in the eye. When he had Malcolm’s attention, those light blue eyes blazing fire in the dimness, he pressed a quick kiss on his lips.

Tension drained out of Malcolm like a punctured balloon. “Watkins was at his grandmother’s house,” he said fast, on a single breath against Gil’s mouth. “Killed Shannon.”

“Malcolm,” Gil protested softly, gently kneading Malcolm’s rock hard shoulder muscles against the mattress. “Not tonight, you need sleep.”

“Details get lost, Gil, you know how important it is to get initial impressions down,” Malcolm gasped, the pressured speech clearly painful on the surgical site in his left side. He grit his teeth stubbornly. “I forget things, my memory’s faulty. We have to put him away…”

“Kid, he’ll be hit with so many charges, Guliani couldn’t get him off,” Gil assured, stroking his hair. “Your mother will hire the best lawyers in the state.”

“I made rookie mistakes,” Malcolm self-castigated. “Got caught up in the chase, the…memories, and wasn’t paying attention to what was right in front of my eyes. I was weak, and he grabbed me, knocked me out—“ He panted, squeezing his eyes shut, obviously in pain. “I thought we were at the cabin…”

“So did we.” Gil nodded, accepting the inevitable. Malcolm had to get it all out or he couldn’t relax. “JT and Dani went up there with Collette and a SUV full of guys in Kevlar. Didn’t find anyone.”

“He kept saying that he was taking us where it all started. Wanted me to work out why I’d stabbed him…” Malcolm shifted restlessly on the bed, breathing rapidly. “I didn’t remember that—at first.”

“But you did?” Gil specified, belatedly thinking he should write some of this down. “Remember?”

“Yeah.” Malcolm sighed, moving his right arm towards the left, pulling on the plastic IV tubing.

“Hey, that comes out and the nurse’ll have to stick you again.” Gil clasped Malcolm’s hand, relieved when he got a loving squeeze in return. “Seems like you need a painkiller, morphine maybe.” _To put you to sleep, at the very least_ , he added silently.

“Not yet, not yet,” Malcolm said impatiently. “Watkins stuck in the knife just about where I’d stabbed him. I was bleeding bad.”

“You were always a master of understatement.”

“I got too cocky, tried profiling him.” Malcolm grunted, the pain clearly getting difficult to bear, “but I failed…”

“Kid, surviving is hardly failing,” Gil said softly. He’d gone to the room under the Whitly house where Watkins held Malcolm, and seen the pool of blood. He saw blood on an almost daily basis, but nearly lost his cool staring down at that gory mess. Only the knowledge that Malcolm was already on the way to the hospital had sustained him. “What’d he do to your left hand?”

“That was me,” Malcolm said, an oddly triumphant expression transforming the pinched suffering to a kind of manic joy. “My dad told me---“ He glanced up at the dark ceiling with a confused frown. “No, that was an hallucination. I _can_ tell the difference. That the diameter of the restraint was three inches and my hand was five.” Malcolm spread all five fingers of his right hand against Gil’s palm. “I just had to eliminate two inches.”

Gil’s belly spasmed. For the second time that night, he thought he’d hurl like some rookie at his first crime scene. “You smashed your own thumb?” he asked faintly.

“Hurt like a son of a bitch,” Malcolm admitted, wincing. “But it worked. I made it out—saved my mother and Ainsley.”

“You made it out.” Gil sent up a silent prayer of gratitude. “You are the strongest man I’ve ever met.”

“Takes one to know one.” Malcolm raised their linked hands to kiss Gil’s wrist. “Think I’ll take that morphine now.”

FIN


End file.
